


a police car, a screaming siren

by inkfiction



Category: Castle
Genre: Archiving previous works, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: Post 4x19. Rick Castle and what the police sirens make him think of.





	a police car, a screaming siren

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2012. Title from 'That's Entertainment' by The Jam. Minor edits.

Before everything, before he became the man he was now, they meant nothing — the flashing blue lights, the wailing sirens. They were just the background noise, another note in the late night symphony of New York.

When he started working with the 12th Precinct, it became something else. It came to signify an excitement, a rush. It made him understand firsthand how exhilarating it felt to be the one wielding the lights, the sirens, striking fear in the hearts of the wicked. Well, _one_ of the ones wielding them, at least.

He remembers the first time he was in her car and she put the light up and turned on the siren — he had almost squealed like a little boy about to get his first cool toy gun. Of course he had ridden in police cars with lights and sirens before, but not like this — not sitting shotgun, getting his first taste of the chase. Oh, he was so excited that for a moment — a very brief moment — she had smiled, as well. But then the moment had passed and she had told him to get a hold of himself before he peed himself with excitement. That had shut him up for a while.

The memory still brought a smile to his lips — his early days as a consultant at the precinct.

Some time passed and the lights, the sirens began to mean something more. He went home and it was a reminder of the work he had done that day, some case he had helped solve, some killer he had helped capture, some crime he had helped prevent. It wasn’t just about the new books, or character building anymore. Every time he saw a flashing blue light from his window, heard the piercing siren — a fissure of pride went through him. He had helped do something worthwhile.

And there were other moments that became important, other things he remembered — flashes of blue light reflected in her eyes, her face bathed in the bluish glow, eerie, beautiful. It always amazed him how this woman was a study in contrasts, how she could look so fragile and so tough, so beautiful and so strong at the same time. It was  _awesome_. It was gorgeous.

And he remembered other times — her face up close, lips by his ear as she would try to tell him something over the piercing wail of the sirens, her lips moving, talking and he found himself disregarding everything else and just looking at that face, tinged with the faint blue light of the squad car, tuning her out and just looking at her. He thought he could look at her all day.

He had seen her get shot, looked into those eyes, watched that face as blood drained out of her body rapidly, watched that face turn the color of the pale grey sky before a storm, white as the color of the paper he wrote on, as his hands slipped and pressed harder upon the wound, trying to contain the blood that leaked and leaked. She had seemed so fragile at that moment — and all he could hear were people shouting and police sirens screaming in his ears, wailing like a grief-stricken widow, and his own voice: scared, broken, panicked, telling her to stay with him, telling her he loved her, telling her how  _much_  he loved her, baring his soul when all he felt like doing was letting go of his sanity and scream until he drowned out the wailing sirens, until nothing remained of the world where something like this could happen to someone he loved beyond anything else.

That was the moment he had realized what she meant to him, what his life would be like if he lost her. That was the moment he came to associate the flashing blue lights with an imminent sense of loss — the sirens wailed along with the silent screaming in his head, making him want to tear out his auditory nerves.

That was the day the fear settled into him. For the next few months, every time he heard those sirens, saw those lights — he would freeze for a nanosecond. He would cringe inwardly, get goose-bumps, a weight would settle down on top of his chest — the telltale signs that make you think something is going to happen, something which would most probably not be good.

It took him a long time to get over that. But eventually he did, he was able to look at those lights and hear the wails of the sirens without flinching.

But he wonders if there is a cure for what he feels when he hears those damned things now. He wonders if that intense ache that grows and grows inside his chest is curable — the ache he’s tried to heal with binge-drinking, late-night parties and lots of girls. Lots of bright, sparkly, fake-chested, peroxide blondes. Nothing helps.

Because every day he sees her and remembers anew the reason he feels this way. Every day he breaks a little more, pulls away a little faster, tries a little harder to let go, to forget like she pretended to forget.

And all those tries — they’ve started to show. They leave little gifts of hangovers, head-aches and a whole lot more. His eyes have a tired, hollow look all the time. His whiskey tumbler is his best friend at nights when he can’t manage to get out on time, lose himself in another mindless party or another night out on town.

He sits alone in his office on those nights and stares into the bottom of his glass, looking for answers that are never there, will never be there. He listens to the faraway wails of the police sirens and hurts inside.


End file.
